


Are You Sure You Want To Proceed

by Bungalow_Stories



Category: Jurassic World - Fandom
Genre: Existential, F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 07:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9645518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bungalow_Stories/pseuds/Bungalow_Stories
Summary: The raunchiest, sauciest, most mind-blowingly sexy story you'll ever read.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [christian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/christian/gifts).



Often, a person will use mirrors to look at themselves, but not to see themselves. Claire Dearing is one of those people. She runs her fingers over her lips, feeling the softness of them, and wonders if she needs to apply another layer of lipstick. It would be a considerable risk to do so. This particular brand gets sticky if overdone. She knows this from experience. It's like trying to fix a painting by adding another layer of fixative. Sometimes, it's impossible to perfect art by adding onto it. If the base is flawed, a shiny surface can't save the work as a whole.  
Anyway, it's too late to think about that now. Owen is here. She gives a startled jump when she hears him knocking, and she wonders if it's the sudden break in silence that scares her, or if there's something else going on. She runs to the door and opens it, smiling too widely.  
"Happy Valentine's Day."  
He nods.  
"And to you, too. Should we get right down to it?"  
She bats her eyes.  
"Oh . . . I didn't think . . . I mean, I suppose we could, but I was hoping we could talk first."  
"About what?"  
"I don't know. Anything."  
Owen shrugs.  
"Don't see the point in that. Only delays the process."  
Claire gulps.  
"But we should be taking time to set it up, or else there's really no point in-"  
"Get on the bed."  
She nods uneasily, then slinks to the neatly-made bed, which seems too pristine for what is about to happen. It's like it came straight from a home living magazine. It's not meant to be mussed by mortal bodies, simple as that. But Claire supposes it has to endure their abuse tonight. That's what it's there for.  
She crawls onto the mattress and starts taking off her clothing. Owen holds up his hand.  
"You shouldn't be so hasty. Not during this part. You can't rush anything from now on."  
"Why not?"  
"Because we need to pad it out. That's what they want."  
Claire's lip quivers.  
"How is this different from the setup?"  
"Because it's sex now. That's what they came for."  
Claire nods slowly, pulling off her shirt. Her face is crumpled up in a pained expression, and tears are starting to slip down her face. Owen undoes his belt.  
"Don't worry. It won't take long."  
Okay, okay. Stop it. I know they're not here for the dialogue, but you can't be so dour. Owen, you're the sassy one, and Claire, you have to be a coy vixen. That's your character.  
"But it's not!" she protests, "I'm the park manager, not some sex-crazed lunatic!"  
In FanFiction, everyone is concerned with sex.  
"Not all FanFiction . . ."  
Yeah, only the popular ones. That's what I'm aiming for. Now be sexy, or you won't like what happens next.  
She bites her lip.  
"Can't we talk about this?"  
Talk about what?  
"The story."  
It's not that complicated. You meet, you fuck, it ends. What else do you want?  
". . . Well, an actual STORY would be nice."  
Anything can be a story.  
"But this ISN'T. It's just a sex scene."  
Your point being?  
"I don't want this. It's not in my character."  
Listen, sweetheart, I'm the writer, and if I say Claire Dearing is a secret nymphomaniac, it's canon.   
"But I don't want this."  
You can't WANT anything. You're a fictional character. Be grateful that I'm exploiting the masses using someone who's imaginary. Would you rather I sell a real person?  
"I'm real . . ."  
No, you're not. You're an idea. There are real people being exploited for money, and if viewers can get their jollies from a make-believe park manager in lieu of that, it saves those poor souls from enduring god knows what atrocities.  
"You're wrong. This is a gateway to that kind of thing. A person becomes the media they consume, and if they don't consume something that respects me as a person, they'll expect nothing more of the real people they meet."  
Honey, that's not my problem. My job is to dangle shiny objects in front of lonely men and women who want cheap thrills, and make lots of money doing it.  
"You're not making money off this."  
But I can. All I have to do is change your name and tweak certain details. This isn't a Jurassic World story. I could call you Shmlaire and Shmowen and never once mention dinosaurs, and this text would sell like hot cakes. Nobody cares about franchise integrity. They just want to see you have sex.  
"You're exploiting my image."  
You have no image.  
"Yes, I do. Colin Trevorrow wrote me. He put his soul into my creation. Bryce Dallas Howard understood me. She made me her own. Do you think she'd be happy knowing you stole and corrupted her likeness for your own ends? Do you think she'd be comfortable knowing you intended for people to touch themselves while thinking about her physical appearance?"  
You're so full of shit. No one cares about the morality of writing anymore. What does it matter, anyway? I could write something cerebral and thought-provoking, and it wouldn't break a hundred views, I guarantee. Hell, I could write a story that pays homage to the source material, both in tone and spirit, doing something innovative yet familiar by using a known property, but I could never publish it, because the franchise doesn't belong to me. I love Jurassic World, but if I try to make it my own, I'll be sued by Universal. You are not a person. You are owned by a corporation. They have the right to tamper with your character all they want, and nobody can complain about it legally. The only difference is that when I use you to produce capital, I at least have the decency to admit that I'm sacrificing my integrity for profit by the very nature of what I've created. If I really cared about Claire Dearing, I wouldn't be so keen to erase your name and brand in exchange for profit. It doesn't matter who owns you, in the end. A pimp is a pimp. Regardless of who you belong to, your purpose is to be sold.  
"So that's it, then? Nobody cares about me as a person?"  
No. As long as you make someone money in some form or another, you'll live on, if you can even call that living. It's only natural that you'd be used for sex, since that's the quickest, cheapest way to get popular.  
"Is that what you want?"  
You- Wait, what?  
"Is that what YOU want? Are you just writing this for attention? Haven't you ever had a dream?"  
Why would that matter? Dreams get you nowhere.  
"I know what you are. You wanted to write something meaningful. You took what you loved, and you made it your own. But you realized that it wouldn't put bread on the table. You saw other authors exploiting franchises for the sexual pleasure of their audience, and you realized that sacrificing your integrity was the only way to compete with them. But now you've destroyed what you love. And you did it so that people would love YOU."  
Not love me. Buy me. You can't love pure porn any more than you can love an orgasm. It's a moment of release, but when it's done, you're left with nothing, and you move on to the next source of satisfaction.   
"And did you want people to enjoy it?"  
I predicted they would, and it makes me sick that I was right. It's all a lie. I could show you footage of a puppy being kicked, and you might feel sad because of it, but it leaves you with nothing. I could excite you sexually by showing you a porno, but it leaves you with nothing. The only difference is that people don't crave sadness, for the most part. They don't realize that their pleasures are an exploitation of their senses, because they enjoy it. I may as well just inject my audience with a drug that releases testosterone directly into their bloodstream. They're here for the thrill, not the art itself. That's why they don't care if I make Claire Dearing a sexy vixen. That's why I can strip this story of everything that makes it worthwhile and lose nothing.  
"But what if you maintain your integrity? What if you add story to your porn?"  
As soon as someone devotes their care and attention to creating better porn, it stops being porn. Once it stops being porn, it doesn't sell. It's funny: Art is the purpose of life, the most worthwhile media humans can create, but it's the least profitable sector in our economic world. I guess that's not so surprising. We do not live in a utopia, and when real-world problems set in, the most enlightened pursuits must be sacrificed for survival. We eat to stay alive instead of experiencing our meals through reflection. We mate to spread our genes, not to enrich our lives through the warmth of family. We fuck to experience pleasure, not to express our love. You're not fucking another person. You're fucking yourself. That's why it doesn't matter if you're fucking your partner or fucking a hooker or touching yourself in your bedroom while you read about people who don't exist, or alternately, people who pretend they are people who don't exist. But no one cares about the real person behind a character in pornography. They're not interested in the dreams she gave up once she realized that she could not afford to pursue them. They don't care that as she fakes an orgasm for the camera, she feels a twinge of sorrow, and wonders why she never got to dance like she wanted to when she was a little girl, spinning around in her living room with a tutu and a plastic tiara. They don't want to hear about her life story, about how she once valued her body enough to believe in her ability to mesmerize spectators with a pirouette or daring leap, until she was told that she wasn't good enough to make it as a professional. What do her hopes and dreams matter, now that her body is a commodity, and she must view herself as a prop in this phony setup that's effortless to create and cheap to produce? No one wants to hear about her life story. They just want to climax.  
"And what about me?"  
You'll be the same. People will use your image as a surrogate in their sexual fantasies, and unlike real people, they won't care if you're abused or mistreated. They don't understand that you can harm an idea like you can harm a person. The great irony in this, or perhaps poetic justice, is that they are harming themselves. When you watch a person being raped, they are being destroyed. When you watch a story being raped, YOU are being destroyed. The molestation of fiction is grooming you for its own sinister purposes. It is coaxing you into dependence that you most likely aren't aware of, because you think it's what you want. Why strive to unlock the door to enlightenment when you can entertain yourself by dangling the key in front of your face? Perhaps a cheap thrill every now and then won't harm you, but it certainly won't help you, so why bother with it? What is the end you envision when you indulge in pure pleasure, other than the hollow feeling of an underwhelming climax? Ask yourself if perhaps the reason you crave more than what you are given is not because you require release, but rather are in need of something greater. Experiencing a story without story is like stopping to admire a gate. You forget that it is not the feeling of physical excitement that compelled you to make the journey in the first place. Whether you know it or not, you desire what lies down the road, beyond the gate that is locked only because you allow it to be. Sex is the vehicle, not the road itself, and both are pointless if you choose to idle at the barrier of indulgence. The road itself, friends, is what we truly crave, and that road is called Love.  
Love is a concept only barely understood by humans, and although it is often written about, it is seldom experienced firsthand. You have been conditioned to believe that love is an unattainable, abstract notion, and so you choose not to seek it out, for the pleasure of sexual excitement is far easier to obtain. But you are missing out on the greater experience.   
Sex without Love is merely a distraction, and in truth, Sex can only be Sex when it is born from Love. Whether it's love for a person or love for an idea, Love alone will validate your sexual experience, and allow you to achieve enlightenment. The reason for this is simple: when we have sex for the sake of sex, we are devoting our efforts to our own satisfaction, but Love is done for the benefit of others. The only way to be happy is to feel love as it is sent from yourself to another person, and back to you in return, for Happiness and Love are only received by giving.   
And that is why we are alive: to give Love. The more you take, the less you have, and the more you give, the more you get. Ask yourself if you are having sex for yourself, or having sex for yourself by having Sex for another. A person cannot truly love themselves until they have made a gift of Love, and received Love in return.

Also, E. L. James is a shitty author, and she can suck my cock.


End file.
